Eddie Izzard came out on stage. He’s my favorite comedian right now, and we went to see him in concert. Sometimes, he performs in a sequined dress. This time, he wore jeans and a jacket with tails. Not animal tails, tails like orchestra conductors wear.
Eddie Izzard talks about a lot of things in his act, from the use of elephants in warfare to what it was like playing Scrabble before the invention of words. But, as in a therapy session, there’s something ringingly significant about the first thing that comes out your mouth. The first thing that came out of Eddie Izzard’s mouth that night was this:
“If God existed, he would have flicked Hitler’s head off.”
An hour or so later, between two wildly unrelated subjects, he suddenly interjected,
“You pray for something, and it happens. You pray for something, and it doesn’t happen. That sounds very much like ‘random.’”
Two funny observations. You can’t help but be tickled, imagining some all-powerful Being placing his Giant Thumb over his forefinger, then releasing the forefinger, and flicking Hitler’s head off. And there is goes, bouncing along the cobblestone.
And those three sentences on prayer capsulize the absurdity of the praying activity. A pithy dismissal of “Dear, God, let me have this.” Or “not have this”, in the case of some disease you’d like God to take away.
But when he did those jokes, I watched Eddie Izzard’s face, and I listened to his voice.
He seemed hurt.
And alone, abandoned, and scared.
Which he covered with irritation and a lofty disdain.
(Author’s Note: There is always the possibility I misread the whole thing.)
Izzard wanted God to flick Hitler’s head off. And since God didn't come through, he feels royally upset. It occurs to him that his belief in a Supreme Being – which we all have at some point, I can’t imagine people are born atheists – has been entirely misplaced. And he decides that he’s not going to believe anymore.
He will no longer believe in the existence of God. That will show him.
“That will show someone you believe doesn’t exist?”
“Shut up!”
Izzard’s not the only comedian who seems irate with a God he is certain does not exist. On his HBO series, Bill Maher frequently “goes off” on the foolishness of believing, cranking up his wrath against organized religion and the devastation it delivered in the name of whatever God they were slaughtering people to honor. That stuff's just ugly.
The second part, I agree with entirely. Organized religion has a lot to answer for, from the “we’re holier than you are, so we’re killing you” mentality to selling “indulgences” to their followers, bribes to get into heaven, paid to ordained hucksters who have no control over the matter.
The first part, I’m not as enthusiastic about.
I’ve heard Maher equate the belief in the existence of God to the belief in the existence of Santa Claus. To which, I reply, in my fantasy where I’m a panelist on his show,
“It’s not the same.”
“How do you know it’s not the same?” he retorts, with patented Maherian indignation.
To which I reply,
“We know where the presents come from. We don’t know where we come from.”
You can hear some murmuring from the crowd, but nothing overt, because it’s his show and his audience. Still, there’s no denying that I’m right. Why? Because we know where the presents come from, but we don’t know where we come from.
In my fantasy, Maher appears chastened but unbowed.
“I still think it’s a load of shit”, he replies, saving face, without disputing my argument. And saying “shit”, ‘cause he’s on cable.
I’m not a believer. Sometimes, I wish I were. I envy their comfort and community. And their certainty. Maher derides such certainty as a passionate belief with no provable evidence.
And I think, “Who does that remind me of?”
Oh, yeah.
Him.
And Eddie Izzard. The difference is, true believers have a look of contentment on their faces. While atheists just look damaged.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
"Where Did It Come From?"
An actor named Peter Riegert was playing a scene in an episode I had conceived for Lateline, a comedy series created by John Markus and (now Senator) Al Franken. Peter Riegert is a fine actor who, among other skillful portrayals, starred in Local Hero, one of my favorite movies of all time.
(In Local Hero, a big oil company sends representative Riegert to buy up an entire idyllic coastal town in northern Scotland, as a future site for a new refinery. The twist is the townspeople can’t wait to sell out, but pretend they don’t want to, so they can jack up the price. Local Hero is a gem.)
The Lateline scene, which takes place on a “movie set”, is being played inside a Dressing Room trailer. Because of space limitations, only the actors and the cameraman are in there. The rest of us are outside, listening in on headphones.
Briefly, the set-up for the scene is that Rob Reiner’s directing a blockbuster “disaster movie” called The Seventh Plague, about an infestation of locusts, and Al’s character, Al Freundlich, a Lateline investigative reporter, originally hired for one scene but kept on as a consultant, has caused the movie to go hideously over-budget by insisting that every element in the production be scrupulously accurate.
Riegert plays the head of the studio, who’s come to the “location” to find out what’s going on. In this scene, Reiner is explaining how Freundlich’s interference has caused multiple delays, sending the movie’s budget skyrocketing out of control.
The scene is played impeccably. Two pros at the top of their game. I am absolutely thrilled. It couldn’t have been better.
When the shooting’s over, Riegert emerges from the trailer. I walk straight up to him. I have never met the man before, but I want him to know how I felt about his performance. I shake his hand, and I tell him this:
“When I see my work come alive, through an actor who understands exactly what I had in mind, I am reminded of all the times when it didn’t.”
There was a big thunderclap of laughter. A truth had just been spoken, and everyone seemed to realize it. I stood there, amazed. Not because I was the center of attention – that’s always enjoyable – but by the experience itself.
Something magical had taken place.
I had made no decision to go up to the man. I simply went. I had not prepared what I was going to say. I hadn’t intended to say anything.
Not knowing what I was going to say, I could not have predicted the reaction, but the big laugh was a confirmation. It told me, “You got it right.”
The experience felt deliriously bizarre. It was almost trance-like. I opened my mouth, and the words came tumbling out. I heard myself starting a sentence, with no idea of where it was going.
The perfect words, in the precisely right number, in exactly the right order. I could never duplicate that kind of clarity in my writing. In fact, what I wrote up there, it’s a “to the best of my recollection” approximation, not exactly what I said. What I said was substantially better.
I don’t remember what I said. In writing, you can only get close. Even when you’re recalling your own words.
What I remember is standing there, a witness to my own talking, as much an audience as everyone else. I was only the medium. The words simply passed on through.
The question – for the questioning mind – is: Where did those words come from?
Who formulated that exquisite compliment? Not me. I’m not that articulate. Or that timely. When I say a wise thing, it’s almost never in the moment. It’s in the car on the way home.
“Where did those words come from?” And while we’re at it, since that’s just the stand-in for the deeper, more serious question:
Where did we come from?
Is it possible it’s the same place? And, if so,
What place is that?
I find myself pussyfooting around the religious arena, because, you know, who wants to offend people? Especially concerning religion’s most fundamental issue – the existence of God. To be honest, I’ve been wanting to tackle the “existence of God” issue for some time.
Doesn’t every blog talk about that?
Maybe I’ll take a crack at it tomorrow.
If “de Lawd” spares me till then.
(In Local Hero, a big oil company sends representative Riegert to buy up an entire idyllic coastal town in northern Scotland, as a future site for a new refinery. The twist is the townspeople can’t wait to sell out, but pretend they don’t want to, so they can jack up the price. Local Hero is a gem.)
The Lateline scene, which takes place on a “movie set”, is being played inside a Dressing Room trailer. Because of space limitations, only the actors and the cameraman are in there. The rest of us are outside, listening in on headphones.
Briefly, the set-up for the scene is that Rob Reiner’s directing a blockbuster “disaster movie” called The Seventh Plague, about an infestation of locusts, and Al’s character, Al Freundlich, a Lateline investigative reporter, originally hired for one scene but kept on as a consultant, has caused the movie to go hideously over-budget by insisting that every element in the production be scrupulously accurate.
Riegert plays the head of the studio, who’s come to the “location” to find out what’s going on. In this scene, Reiner is explaining how Freundlich’s interference has caused multiple delays, sending the movie’s budget skyrocketing out of control.
The scene is played impeccably. Two pros at the top of their game. I am absolutely thrilled. It couldn’t have been better.
When the shooting’s over, Riegert emerges from the trailer. I walk straight up to him. I have never met the man before, but I want him to know how I felt about his performance. I shake his hand, and I tell him this:
“When I see my work come alive, through an actor who understands exactly what I had in mind, I am reminded of all the times when it didn’t.”
There was a big thunderclap of laughter. A truth had just been spoken, and everyone seemed to realize it. I stood there, amazed. Not because I was the center of attention – that’s always enjoyable – but by the experience itself.
Something magical had taken place.
I had made no decision to go up to the man. I simply went. I had not prepared what I was going to say. I hadn’t intended to say anything.
Not knowing what I was going to say, I could not have predicted the reaction, but the big laugh was a confirmation. It told me, “You got it right.”
The experience felt deliriously bizarre. It was almost trance-like. I opened my mouth, and the words came tumbling out. I heard myself starting a sentence, with no idea of where it was going.
The perfect words, in the precisely right number, in exactly the right order. I could never duplicate that kind of clarity in my writing. In fact, what I wrote up there, it’s a “to the best of my recollection” approximation, not exactly what I said. What I said was substantially better.
I don’t remember what I said. In writing, you can only get close. Even when you’re recalling your own words.
What I remember is standing there, a witness to my own talking, as much an audience as everyone else. I was only the medium. The words simply passed on through.
The question – for the questioning mind – is: Where did those words come from?
Who formulated that exquisite compliment? Not me. I’m not that articulate. Or that timely. When I say a wise thing, it’s almost never in the moment. It’s in the car on the way home.
“Where did those words come from?” And while we’re at it, since that’s just the stand-in for the deeper, more serious question:
Where did we come from?
Is it possible it’s the same place? And, if so,
What place is that?
I find myself pussyfooting around the religious arena, because, you know, who wants to offend people? Especially concerning religion’s most fundamental issue – the existence of God. To be honest, I’ve been wanting to tackle the “existence of God” issue for some time.
Doesn’t every blog talk about that?
Maybe I’ll take a crack at it tomorrow.
If “de Lawd” spares me till then.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
"Everybody's A Writer"
That title?
Sarcasm.
I’ve told my kids that sarcasm is the dialect used by people who don’t have any power. That’s me, in this situation.
Everybody thinks they’re a writer. And there’s nothing I can do about it.
I admit I’m a little prickly on the subject, my personal history as a relatively successful television writer riddled, as it was, by run-ins with network and studio executives, people who had no discernible writing abilities, telling people who had considerable writing abilities what do. A background of this nature can make one a little touchy when it comes to the criticism of their work.
What happened, Earl?
I’ll tell you what happened, Italics Man.
I got rewritten by my Internist.
That’s right. My Internist, a man of medicine, but not writing,
Rewrote something I had written first.
What is his writing experience? He writes prescriptions nobody can read.
Yet, that guy,
“Dr. Illegible”,
Rewrote me.
You’ll have to excuse me. I’m still fuming about it. Here’s the back-story. I’ll keep it short, ‘cause it’s not that interesting. I may send it to my Internist to see if I’m telling it right.
More sarcasm? You betcha.
Okay. Fourteen weeks at a mandatory, medically supervised cardiac rehabilitation program prevented me from training at my regular gym. My personal trainer, Eve, informed me that if the gym got an explanatory letter from my doctor, they would extend my year-long contract, so I wouldn’t have to pay for the time I was absent.
So, fine. I need a letter from my Internist. Now I’m figuring, my Internist is a busy guy, his days filled with telling his patients they’re deficient in some essential nutrient or other, and they need to take supplements he just happens to sell out of his office. That’s not fair. He’s a good doctor. (Though he does sell supplements out of his office.)
But it’s not just that he’s busy. I am generally uncomfortable asking people for favors, and this is unquestionably a favor, since it’s not a medical service I’m asking for, it’s a way for me to save a few bucks at the gym.
I formulate a plan. The plan is to write the letter myself, and then fax it to my Internist. The doctor signs the letter, faxes it back to me, I send it to Eve, and she presents it to the gym. Problem solved. Problems make me anxious. But I immediately relax when they’re solved.
This one will soon be solved.
I write the letter. I fax the letter to my Internist’s office. Later, that day, a letter is faxed back. It is not, however, my letter with the Internist’s signature on it.
My Internist has made a few “changes.”
I couldn’t believe it. My Internist had rewritten my letter. Why? I have no idea. I don’t diagnose ailments. You’ll never hear my saying, “That sounds like gallstones to me.” Diagnosing is doctor’s work.
And writing
Is writer’s work.
I was too steamed to sit down and compare our two letters, to see what exactly he “improved.” I should have. I’m sorry. If I had, I’d have tangible evidence, rather than just my word for it, that nothing was substantially changed. A few words here and there. Some adjustments in emphasis. Nothing major. Nothing – in my view – necessary.
Like many an externally mandated revision, the material had been rewritten “sideways.”
My Internist had clearly found my original effort lacking, and since – and it’s admittedly true – his signature would be at the bottom, he felt required to give my deficient letter his own personal “punch up.”
Maybe he felt, “Earl hasn’t been working in a while, and he’s gotten a little rusty. I’m going to take a pass at it, and give this letter what it’s so obviously missing.”
It never ends.
It doesn’t matter that you’re off the playing field. “Indignity” will find you wherever you are.
And when he does, he will ruin your entire day.
Sarcasm.
I’ve told my kids that sarcasm is the dialect used by people who don’t have any power. That’s me, in this situation.
Everybody thinks they’re a writer. And there’s nothing I can do about it.
I admit I’m a little prickly on the subject, my personal history as a relatively successful television writer riddled, as it was, by run-ins with network and studio executives, people who had no discernible writing abilities, telling people who had considerable writing abilities what do. A background of this nature can make one a little touchy when it comes to the criticism of their work.
What happened, Earl?
I’ll tell you what happened, Italics Man.
I got rewritten by my Internist.
That’s right. My Internist, a man of medicine, but not writing,
Rewrote something I had written first.
What is his writing experience? He writes prescriptions nobody can read.
Yet, that guy,
“Dr. Illegible”,
Rewrote me.
You’ll have to excuse me. I’m still fuming about it. Here’s the back-story. I’ll keep it short, ‘cause it’s not that interesting. I may send it to my Internist to see if I’m telling it right.
More sarcasm? You betcha.
Okay. Fourteen weeks at a mandatory, medically supervised cardiac rehabilitation program prevented me from training at my regular gym. My personal trainer, Eve, informed me that if the gym got an explanatory letter from my doctor, they would extend my year-long contract, so I wouldn’t have to pay for the time I was absent.
So, fine. I need a letter from my Internist. Now I’m figuring, my Internist is a busy guy, his days filled with telling his patients they’re deficient in some essential nutrient or other, and they need to take supplements he just happens to sell out of his office. That’s not fair. He’s a good doctor. (Though he does sell supplements out of his office.)
But it’s not just that he’s busy. I am generally uncomfortable asking people for favors, and this is unquestionably a favor, since it’s not a medical service I’m asking for, it’s a way for me to save a few bucks at the gym.
I formulate a plan. The plan is to write the letter myself, and then fax it to my Internist. The doctor signs the letter, faxes it back to me, I send it to Eve, and she presents it to the gym. Problem solved. Problems make me anxious. But I immediately relax when they’re solved.
This one will soon be solved.
I write the letter. I fax the letter to my Internist’s office. Later, that day, a letter is faxed back. It is not, however, my letter with the Internist’s signature on it.
My Internist has made a few “changes.”
I couldn’t believe it. My Internist had rewritten my letter. Why? I have no idea. I don’t diagnose ailments. You’ll never hear my saying, “That sounds like gallstones to me.” Diagnosing is doctor’s work.
And writing
Is writer’s work.
I was too steamed to sit down and compare our two letters, to see what exactly he “improved.” I should have. I’m sorry. If I had, I’d have tangible evidence, rather than just my word for it, that nothing was substantially changed. A few words here and there. Some adjustments in emphasis. Nothing major. Nothing – in my view – necessary.
Like many an externally mandated revision, the material had been rewritten “sideways.”
My Internist had clearly found my original effort lacking, and since – and it’s admittedly true – his signature would be at the bottom, he felt required to give my deficient letter his own personal “punch up.”
Maybe he felt, “Earl hasn’t been working in a while, and he’s gotten a little rusty. I’m going to take a pass at it, and give this letter what it’s so obviously missing.”
It never ends.
It doesn’t matter that you’re off the playing field. “Indignity” will find you wherever you are.
And when he does, he will ruin your entire day.
Monday, March 8, 2010
"Earl Fantasy Number Two"
I have in my head somewhere a handful of fantasies of things, which, due to age and a congenital lack of courage, I will never get to do. I mentioned one on my birthday: Sing a medley of western theme songs at the Cowboy Hall of Fame.
That might have been fun. Strapping on that six-gun my friend Dennis brought me from Tucson, and almost got arrested carrying it onto the plane. I’d have come out, wearing my authentic blue-and-white checkered shirt with pearl snaps instead of buttons, my beautiful cowboy boots that only hurt when I wear them, and a truly knockout cowboy hat. I mean, that hat could walk onstage and inspire a standing ovation all by itself.
“Up on your feet, Boys. We’re in the presence of a classic cowboy hat.”
Yeah… (SIGH)… that would have been something.
I announced that the next fantasy I’d tell you about would be “Earl Pomerantz Entertains At The White House”, but I’m not ready for that yet. I’m still fiddling with my “play list.” I hate to disappoint the president. But he’s a pretty busy guy. He probably doesn’t even know I’ve rescheduled.
Earl, this isn’t real.
Back off, Italics Man. It’s a real fantasy.
Instead – and this is a departure for fantasies, though not my fantasies – I present a fantasy which, in some ways, I wish had happened, but having seen it played out in my head, I’m extremely glad it didn’t.
Earl Fantasy Number Two:
Earl Pomerantz Reads Excerpts From His Recently Published Book
I’ve written two books that weren’t published. One is my cowboy book, Saddle Up!, which I occasionally excerpt, for mostly my enjoyment, on this blog. Saddle Up! presents a series of “first person reminiscences” – I put that in quotes, ‘cause they’re not really first person reminiscences, I made them all up – by actors, including animals, who, for years, played the same roles in western movies and TV shows – “The Sidekick”, “The Bad Guy”, “The Good Guy’s Hotheaded Brother”, the “Stampeding Buffalo”, who, along with eleven others, were required to simulate an great herd, by continually running past the camera – each time pretending to be a different buffalo – as the director, through adept camera placement, tried to turn twelve buffalo into a multitude.
Publishers tell me nobody cares about westerns, so that one’s in a box under my desk.
The other book I wrote is a political commentary entitled Both Sides Make Me Angry. I thought I had some interesting things to say, but, apparently, that’s not enough. It turns out, for people to care about your opinions, you have to be a person with an acknowledged expertise. Or a Kardashian.
There is a third book – he went on, referencing books that are available nowhere – and that’s Story of a Writer, created specifically for this blog. A book agent encouraged me to allow her to show it around. I had no interest. Why? Well, for one thing, she suggested that I needed a catchier title. The agent’s suggestion – edging toward an instruction – provided a glimpse of what would be required. One whiff of “selling mode” and I was completely turned off.
I’d like to have a book published. However, my fantasy about it revealed that, reading excerpts, a traditional part of the book selling process…
Train wreck.
I’m a terrible reader. Part of it’s a vision issue. I don’t see well – far, close, or side to side. That third limitation is the crux of my reading difficulty. When normally sighted people read, their peripheral vision tips them off to upcoming words and phrases, allowing their reading to flow smoothly and naturally. For me, however, I’m reading away, and suddenly it’s like…”Whoa, where did that word come from?”
(I have a similar problem as a passenger in cars. I’ve been known to jump when a vehicle emerging from a cross street flashes into my line of sight, terrifying the driver, who believes we are about to crash. No crash. Blessed with regular peripheral vision, the driver has already considered the emerging vehicle. It is only my type of peripheral vision that makes the vehicle appear to have shown up out of nowhere.)
The other problem with a public reading is, you know, you write something, you re-write it, you re-write it again, you massage it, you tweak it, you polish it, and then, finally, you let it go. You feel like you’ve done your best. Still, inside, there’s this nagging suspicion that a “better” version may still be out there.
Assuming perfect vision, I would still have trouble, because, as I’m proceeding, the “better version” would suddenly pop into my head, and I’d be unable to ignore it, because it’s a better version. Inevitably, the words on the page and the improvement I just came up with would crash into each other coming out of my mouth.
You can imagine what that does to a reading.
Fantasies. Wish fulfillments, and wish fulfillment warnings.
Both are comforts in their own way.
That might have been fun. Strapping on that six-gun my friend Dennis brought me from Tucson, and almost got arrested carrying it onto the plane. I’d have come out, wearing my authentic blue-and-white checkered shirt with pearl snaps instead of buttons, my beautiful cowboy boots that only hurt when I wear them, and a truly knockout cowboy hat. I mean, that hat could walk onstage and inspire a standing ovation all by itself.
“Up on your feet, Boys. We’re in the presence of a classic cowboy hat.”
Yeah… (SIGH)… that would have been something.
I announced that the next fantasy I’d tell you about would be “Earl Pomerantz Entertains At The White House”, but I’m not ready for that yet. I’m still fiddling with my “play list.” I hate to disappoint the president. But he’s a pretty busy guy. He probably doesn’t even know I’ve rescheduled.
Earl, this isn’t real.
Back off, Italics Man. It’s a real fantasy.
Instead – and this is a departure for fantasies, though not my fantasies – I present a fantasy which, in some ways, I wish had happened, but having seen it played out in my head, I’m extremely glad it didn’t.
Earl Fantasy Number Two:
Earl Pomerantz Reads Excerpts From His Recently Published Book
I’ve written two books that weren’t published. One is my cowboy book, Saddle Up!, which I occasionally excerpt, for mostly my enjoyment, on this blog. Saddle Up! presents a series of “first person reminiscences” – I put that in quotes, ‘cause they’re not really first person reminiscences, I made them all up – by actors, including animals, who, for years, played the same roles in western movies and TV shows – “The Sidekick”, “The Bad Guy”, “The Good Guy’s Hotheaded Brother”, the “Stampeding Buffalo”, who, along with eleven others, were required to simulate an great herd, by continually running past the camera – each time pretending to be a different buffalo – as the director, through adept camera placement, tried to turn twelve buffalo into a multitude.
Publishers tell me nobody cares about westerns, so that one’s in a box under my desk.
The other book I wrote is a political commentary entitled Both Sides Make Me Angry. I thought I had some interesting things to say, but, apparently, that’s not enough. It turns out, for people to care about your opinions, you have to be a person with an acknowledged expertise. Or a Kardashian.
There is a third book – he went on, referencing books that are available nowhere – and that’s Story of a Writer, created specifically for this blog. A book agent encouraged me to allow her to show it around. I had no interest. Why? Well, for one thing, she suggested that I needed a catchier title. The agent’s suggestion – edging toward an instruction – provided a glimpse of what would be required. One whiff of “selling mode” and I was completely turned off.
I’d like to have a book published. However, my fantasy about it revealed that, reading excerpts, a traditional part of the book selling process…
Train wreck.
I’m a terrible reader. Part of it’s a vision issue. I don’t see well – far, close, or side to side. That third limitation is the crux of my reading difficulty. When normally sighted people read, their peripheral vision tips them off to upcoming words and phrases, allowing their reading to flow smoothly and naturally. For me, however, I’m reading away, and suddenly it’s like…”Whoa, where did that word come from?”
(I have a similar problem as a passenger in cars. I’ve been known to jump when a vehicle emerging from a cross street flashes into my line of sight, terrifying the driver, who believes we are about to crash. No crash. Blessed with regular peripheral vision, the driver has already considered the emerging vehicle. It is only my type of peripheral vision that makes the vehicle appear to have shown up out of nowhere.)
The other problem with a public reading is, you know, you write something, you re-write it, you re-write it again, you massage it, you tweak it, you polish it, and then, finally, you let it go. You feel like you’ve done your best. Still, inside, there’s this nagging suspicion that a “better” version may still be out there.
Assuming perfect vision, I would still have trouble, because, as I’m proceeding, the “better version” would suddenly pop into my head, and I’d be unable to ignore it, because it’s a better version. Inevitably, the words on the page and the improvement I just came up with would crash into each other coming out of my mouth.
You can imagine what that does to a reading.
Fantasies. Wish fulfillments, and wish fulfillment warnings.
Both are comforts in their own way.
Friday, March 5, 2010
"You're Not Funny"
When I was in High School, I read an essay by a Canadian writer named Stephen Leacock, making the point that you can tell a person they’re stupid or unattractive and they can generally handle it, but if you tell them they don’t have a sense of humor, they’ll get noticeably upset and may even do injury to your body, more or less proving they don’t have a sense of humor, but you’re better off not telling them that, because of the likelihood of their hurting you even more.
People are touchy about their senses of humor. And Stephen Leacock was writing about civilians. How much more touchy are the people who do, or would like to do, humor for a living.
Hearing “You’re not funny”, especially from a credible source in the “funny field”, can end your dream of a career in comedy right then and there, the logic on the matter being sparklingly clear:
“The comedy business is for people who are funny. You are not funny. The comedy business is not for you.”
The trouble is, though the logic may be sparklingly clear, the evidence on which the conclusion is based is not, the problem being, “How can you accurately designate whether a person is funny?”
Does everybody have to laugh, before a person can be declared “funny”? Not necessarily.
COMEDIAN: “Everybody laughed.”
HIS CLEAR-EYED BEST FRIEND: “Not the owner of the comedy club.”
If the person that matters remains stone-faced, you are classified: “Not funny.”
COMEDIAN: “But everybody laughed.”
OWNER OF THE COMEDY CLUB: “I didn’t.”
So that’s one way to be “not funny” – if you’re not funny to the person who matters. Another way to be “not funny” is by doing material that’s not appropriate for the audience.
COMEDIAN: “I don’t understand it. My ‘I ran over a dog’ story always gets screams!
HIS CLEAR-EYED BEST FRIEND: “Not at a PETA convention.”
Then, there’s the timing issue. Not the joke-telling timing, the when-you-tell- the-joke timing.
Too soon:
“Did you hear? The “Challenger” just blew up.”
“I guess they weren’t up to the challenge.”
Too late:
“Speaking about Jayne Mansfield…”
“Who?”
I’m sure there are other reasons for being incorrectly labeled “not funny”, which I have neither the time nor the inclination to come up with right now. The point is, “funny” is a delicate business. I, for one, have always been aware of that.
Let’s, for the moment, say that I’m funny. I don’t want a debate on the matter. For the following anecdote, it is necessary to assume that I’m funny. We can have a referendum on it at some future time.
Okay, I’m funny. And I’m working on this CBC (Canadian national television) series called Music Machine, as the “funny music critic.” (Would they hire a not funny guy to be the “funny music critic”? So – proof – I’m funny.)
We’re sitting in the Dressing Room before a taping, “we” being the show’s band, the eponymous Music Machine, and myself. (I believe I used “eponymous” correctly. But I could be wrong.)
Having pre-recorded their musical numbers earlier in the week, the band has no further duties, other than to lip-sync to the pre-recorded soundtrack in front of the cameras. As a result, the band is totally relaxed. And smoking pot.
They offer some to me. I say, “No, thank you.” Not out of principle, but because I did not pre-record my hilarious monolog. I have to perform it live, in front of the cameras, as well as an assembled studio audience. Understanding that “funny” is a delicate business, I require that my “funny apparatus” remain unencumbered by mood altering substances. I need my brain exactly the way it is.
And I was right. During my performance, I found myself accessing my brain on numerous occasions, always grateful it was available to me, rather than humming distractedly, or intensely considering where I could score some Cheetos.
I always knew “funny” was a delicate business, but I was not aware how delicate, till I visited to a Northern Ontario mining town called Sudbury. I’m sure you’ve all been there.
A friend of mine was teaching English at a community college in Sudbury, and he hired me, I think, for a hundred dollars plus expenses (which, I believe, is what Rockford used to get) to come up and talk about comedy writing to a gathering of future miners. I said, “Sure.” You don’t turn down an opportunity like that.
I was scheduled to speak to nine classes over two days. And here’s what happened. I’d talk to one class about what I do (which, at the time, was writing a weekly column for a Toronto newspaper), and the kids are howling. I am on fire! I mean, I’m doing Bill Cosby imitations, and I didn’t even know I knew how.
At the end of the period, as they changed classes, I overhear a departing student tell an arriving student, “You’re gonna love this guy. He’s really funny.”
The new class comes in, I start again, and…nothing. Not a laugh, not a titter. I’m bombing in front of the Miners of Tomorrow. The kids are staring at me, thinking, “I thought he was supposed to be funny.”
I felt dumbstruck and shocked. I mean, you knock it out of the park with one class, and minutes later, before a not discernibly different other class – a dribbler to the mound.
As Fred Willard declared in A Mighty Wind, “Wha’ hoppin’?”
One thing that “hoppin’” is a lack of experience. Professional comedy people can be funny more consistently. And they have tricks to “save” themselves when they’re in trouble. I relied on my natural abilities. The results of my efforts? Decidedly mixed.
Decades later, in some Sudbury tavern, fistfights will still break out on the subject.
“The guy was funny!”
“The guy was crap!”
The truth is, I was both. Though I hope the guy on my side got in some good shots.
Hey, I flew up to Sudbury. The least they could do was chuckle.
People are touchy about their senses of humor. And Stephen Leacock was writing about civilians. How much more touchy are the people who do, or would like to do, humor for a living.
Hearing “You’re not funny”, especially from a credible source in the “funny field”, can end your dream of a career in comedy right then and there, the logic on the matter being sparklingly clear:
“The comedy business is for people who are funny. You are not funny. The comedy business is not for you.”
The trouble is, though the logic may be sparklingly clear, the evidence on which the conclusion is based is not, the problem being, “How can you accurately designate whether a person is funny?”
Does everybody have to laugh, before a person can be declared “funny”? Not necessarily.
COMEDIAN: “Everybody laughed.”
HIS CLEAR-EYED BEST FRIEND: “Not the owner of the comedy club.”
If the person that matters remains stone-faced, you are classified: “Not funny.”
COMEDIAN: “But everybody laughed.”
OWNER OF THE COMEDY CLUB: “I didn’t.”
So that’s one way to be “not funny” – if you’re not funny to the person who matters. Another way to be “not funny” is by doing material that’s not appropriate for the audience.
COMEDIAN: “I don’t understand it. My ‘I ran over a dog’ story always gets screams!
HIS CLEAR-EYED BEST FRIEND: “Not at a PETA convention.”
Then, there’s the timing issue. Not the joke-telling timing, the when-you-tell- the-joke timing.
Too soon:
“Did you hear? The “Challenger” just blew up.”
“I guess they weren’t up to the challenge.”
Too late:
“Speaking about Jayne Mansfield…”
“Who?”
I’m sure there are other reasons for being incorrectly labeled “not funny”, which I have neither the time nor the inclination to come up with right now. The point is, “funny” is a delicate business. I, for one, have always been aware of that.
Let’s, for the moment, say that I’m funny. I don’t want a debate on the matter. For the following anecdote, it is necessary to assume that I’m funny. We can have a referendum on it at some future time.
Okay, I’m funny. And I’m working on this CBC (Canadian national television) series called Music Machine, as the “funny music critic.” (Would they hire a not funny guy to be the “funny music critic”? So – proof – I’m funny.)
We’re sitting in the Dressing Room before a taping, “we” being the show’s band, the eponymous Music Machine, and myself. (I believe I used “eponymous” correctly. But I could be wrong.)
Having pre-recorded their musical numbers earlier in the week, the band has no further duties, other than to lip-sync to the pre-recorded soundtrack in front of the cameras. As a result, the band is totally relaxed. And smoking pot.
They offer some to me. I say, “No, thank you.” Not out of principle, but because I did not pre-record my hilarious monolog. I have to perform it live, in front of the cameras, as well as an assembled studio audience. Understanding that “funny” is a delicate business, I require that my “funny apparatus” remain unencumbered by mood altering substances. I need my brain exactly the way it is.
And I was right. During my performance, I found myself accessing my brain on numerous occasions, always grateful it was available to me, rather than humming distractedly, or intensely considering where I could score some Cheetos.
I always knew “funny” was a delicate business, but I was not aware how delicate, till I visited to a Northern Ontario mining town called Sudbury. I’m sure you’ve all been there.
A friend of mine was teaching English at a community college in Sudbury, and he hired me, I think, for a hundred dollars plus expenses (which, I believe, is what Rockford used to get) to come up and talk about comedy writing to a gathering of future miners. I said, “Sure.” You don’t turn down an opportunity like that.
I was scheduled to speak to nine classes over two days. And here’s what happened. I’d talk to one class about what I do (which, at the time, was writing a weekly column for a Toronto newspaper), and the kids are howling. I am on fire! I mean, I’m doing Bill Cosby imitations, and I didn’t even know I knew how.
At the end of the period, as they changed classes, I overhear a departing student tell an arriving student, “You’re gonna love this guy. He’s really funny.”
The new class comes in, I start again, and…nothing. Not a laugh, not a titter. I’m bombing in front of the Miners of Tomorrow. The kids are staring at me, thinking, “I thought he was supposed to be funny.”
I felt dumbstruck and shocked. I mean, you knock it out of the park with one class, and minutes later, before a not discernibly different other class – a dribbler to the mound.
As Fred Willard declared in A Mighty Wind, “Wha’ hoppin’?”
One thing that “hoppin’” is a lack of experience. Professional comedy people can be funny more consistently. And they have tricks to “save” themselves when they’re in trouble. I relied on my natural abilities. The results of my efforts? Decidedly mixed.
Decades later, in some Sudbury tavern, fistfights will still break out on the subject.
“The guy was funny!”
“The guy was crap!”
The truth is, I was both. Though I hope the guy on my side got in some good shots.
Hey, I flew up to Sudbury. The least they could do was chuckle.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
"A Memorable Turning Point"
This story may sound like nothing to you. But to me, it was something. A big something. So big, in fact, that it took me 536 posts to finally let it out. I don’t really want to write about it now. But if I don’t, it will irritate me until I do. Thoughts are funny that way.
It happened about five years ago. Now, closer to six. I’m standing outside a supermarket-sized stationery store, about to go in. I stop, and ponder the moment. Wrong. I didn’t stop. The moment made me stop. And, while stopped, I pondered.
The moment was right to make me stop. I was at a turning point. It needed to be appropriately marked.
After thirty years of regular employment, I was no longer working for money. Apparently, show business had a meeting and decided I was done. Nobody wanted me. It was time for me to go.
Hey, it’s their business. They can do whatever they want. And they wanted me unpaid and at home.
I was labeled “out of sync with the marketplace.” Show business doesn’t pay people who are “out of sync with the marketplace.” Or provide them with an office. And a secretary. And their own personal parking space. And unlimited “long distance.” And free lunches at the commissary.
Or this thing.
“This thing” was always part of the arrangement. Not the most valuable part, or even close, but it was automatic. There was always unlimited this. You could use it in the office, you could take it home. Nobody cared. You did studio work at home, you needed “this.” They said “Take as much as you want.” Or at least that was implied.
Now, all that was finished. No more studio “perks.” No more “this.” The arrangement was over. The “this” deal was gone.
Endings are hard. Beginnings? Remember the first day of school? Beginnings are like that. First page of your notebook, you write really neat. It’s a fresh start. You’re hopeful. There’ll be neat writing forever.
Endings mean change. People hate change. Even when it’s for the better. Look at the resistance to health care reform. “You don’t want affordable health care?” “We’ll stick with what we have.” “You ‘have’ terrible health care.” “It’s what we’re used to.”
I had no choice in the matter. The change was externally imposed. I was hurt. I felt lost and alone, adrift on a sea of uncertainty and regret.
Was it my fault? Had I done something wrong? “No. A change in fashion. It’s nothing personal. Leave your key on the desk.”
And now I was here, standing in front of a stationery store, starting a new chapter in my life. Oh, well. Onward and upward.
I took a deep breath, and went inside.
I bought three reams of copy paper for my printer.
I walked up to the cashier,
And for the first time in thirty years…
I had to pay for the paper myself.
The one sign of hope?
I bought three reams of paper.
I guess I thought I still had something to write.
(Author’s Note: To those who wanted to do what I did but it didn’t work out? I’m sorry if this sounds petty. Believe me, it was really big at the time.)
It happened about five years ago. Now, closer to six. I’m standing outside a supermarket-sized stationery store, about to go in. I stop, and ponder the moment. Wrong. I didn’t stop. The moment made me stop. And, while stopped, I pondered.
The moment was right to make me stop. I was at a turning point. It needed to be appropriately marked.
After thirty years of regular employment, I was no longer working for money. Apparently, show business had a meeting and decided I was done. Nobody wanted me. It was time for me to go.
Hey, it’s their business. They can do whatever they want. And they wanted me unpaid and at home.
I was labeled “out of sync with the marketplace.” Show business doesn’t pay people who are “out of sync with the marketplace.” Or provide them with an office. And a secretary. And their own personal parking space. And unlimited “long distance.” And free lunches at the commissary.
Or this thing.
“This thing” was always part of the arrangement. Not the most valuable part, or even close, but it was automatic. There was always unlimited this. You could use it in the office, you could take it home. Nobody cared. You did studio work at home, you needed “this.” They said “Take as much as you want.” Or at least that was implied.
Now, all that was finished. No more studio “perks.” No more “this.” The arrangement was over. The “this” deal was gone.
Endings are hard. Beginnings? Remember the first day of school? Beginnings are like that. First page of your notebook, you write really neat. It’s a fresh start. You’re hopeful. There’ll be neat writing forever.
Endings mean change. People hate change. Even when it’s for the better. Look at the resistance to health care reform. “You don’t want affordable health care?” “We’ll stick with what we have.” “You ‘have’ terrible health care.” “It’s what we’re used to.”
I had no choice in the matter. The change was externally imposed. I was hurt. I felt lost and alone, adrift on a sea of uncertainty and regret.
Was it my fault? Had I done something wrong? “No. A change in fashion. It’s nothing personal. Leave your key on the desk.”
And now I was here, standing in front of a stationery store, starting a new chapter in my life. Oh, well. Onward and upward.
I took a deep breath, and went inside.
I bought three reams of copy paper for my printer.
I walked up to the cashier,
And for the first time in thirty years…
I had to pay for the paper myself.
The one sign of hope?
I bought three reams of paper.
I guess I thought I still had something to write.
(Author’s Note: To those who wanted to do what I did but it didn’t work out? I’m sorry if this sounds petty. Believe me, it was really big at the time.)
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
"A Final Comment On The Olympics"
I watched curling for two weeks. And I still have no idea what they were doing.
I knew some stuff from before. I used to watch curling in Canada. Curling is a winter sport, and I’d watch anything that would keep me from going outside.
(I drew the line at French-Canadian bowling. I’d hear the announcer describing a “sept-dix split”, and I had to get up and go find my parka. Watching that was a screaming admission that I was throwing my life away.)
My earlier viewings of curling made me relatively clear on the basics. I understand how you scored points. It’s like marbles or shuffleboard. A player on one team delivers their rock, hoping to get it closer to the center of the concentric circles than the other team’s rocks. To protect their scoring rocks, they position “guard rocks” out in front, so the other team can’t knock them away.
I know about the “in-turn draw” and the “out-turn draw.” That has to do with the direction you twist the handle attached to the top of the rock before letting it go. The way you twist the handle reflects your desire for the rock to “curl” in or “curl” out.
I understand the “sweeping.” The sweeping brushes away the debris in front of the rock, allowing it to slide faster. If that’s what you want, you sweep. If your rock is sliding at the appropriate speed, or too quickly, you don’t sweep. Also, if one team’s rock looks like it’s going to slide through the circles and therefore score zero, the other team sweeps, to insure that that happens.
I know there are ten “ends”, which are like innings, during which the teams take turns delivering their rocks, and that if there’s a tie after ten, you go into extra “ends” until there’s a winner.
Through the entire two weeks of watching on television, I learned virtually nothing more about curling than I already knew. I learned that, if a team has the last shot in an “end,” you say that that team has the “hammer.” And that was it.
Being observant, I noticed a couple of things on my own. I noticed, to my amazement that, though the “sweepers” went hurtling down to lane, seemingly not looking where they were going, never once did they trip over a rock that was already in place. I would have fallen over everything.
Another thing I noticed: “Those Swedish women are big!”
Other Olympic sports were easy to understand, even for the novice. In the speed events, you watched the times. The athlete with the fastest time, won. With figure skating, it was the judges’ scores. You could disagree with those scores, but you knew they were the deciding factor.
I never saw the Biathlon before, but I got it right away. It’s skiing and it’s shooting. (It’s like they were short one event, and it edged out skating and yodeling.)
Not that there aren’t subtleties in every event that experts would be aware of but would pass me right by. There were tons of those. But for the most part, what you knew was enough to allow you to appreciate what was going on.
An essential element in curling is the player’s “touch” when releasing the rock. The “touch” determines the success of the shot. It’s a delicate maneuver. The right “touch” and the rock does exactly what you intend it to do. You’re a little “off” with your shot, and your teammates – though they pretend not to be – are really mad at you.
But as important as “touch” is, even more important is strategy. The plan behind the shot. That’s where the bulk of the time is taken. The shots themselves take twenty-five seconds. The rest of the time, the players are huddling, to decide which type of shot to try. Sometimes, a team calls a “time out” for a more extended discussion. That’s how vital strategy is to curling.
The announcers covering the curling competition – I believe there were three of them – would debate strategy along with the players. They would all articulate their positions, usually differing ones. But here’s the big problem.
The announcers discussed their various strategies in the language of connoisseurs of the game, believing it appeared, that the viewing audience was as knowledgeable as they were.
Why would they think that? It’s curling!
I recognized a few words here and there. They were speaking English, but in a different and, to me, undecipherable dialect. It was like eavesdropping in a bar where they only speak Gaelic. It sounded familiar, but the gist was frustratingly out of reach.
They were arguing strategy, the most important element in curling. And I had no idea what they were talking about!
This is what it sounded like to me:
ANNOUNCER NUMBER ONE: “What I think they should do here is to…(articulating 'Strategy A', which they don’t explain)…so they can…(articulating the hoped-for outcome, which they don’t explain)…without…(verbal static, featuring incomprehensible – unless you’re an expert in curling – groupings of words.)”
ANNOUNCER NUMBER TWO: “I get what you’re drivin’ at there, but, to me, that’s extremely risky. The best plan here is to…(articulating an equally incomprehensible 'Strategy B'.) That way they can…(total gibberish)… while at same time…(more verbal static, but with an upbeat tone, indicating a desirable effect.)"
ANNOUNCER NUMBER THREE: “You guys both have a point. But if I were them, I would…bibbity bobbity boo…making certain to…wee-oo, wee-oo, wee-oo…while keeping my opponent from…abba dabba dabba, said the monkey to the chimp.”
I spent hours and hours watching a game, whose strategy the announcers made an inadequate effort to explain.
I want my hours and hours back.
I knew some stuff from before. I used to watch curling in Canada. Curling is a winter sport, and I’d watch anything that would keep me from going outside.
(I drew the line at French-Canadian bowling. I’d hear the announcer describing a “sept-dix split”, and I had to get up and go find my parka. Watching that was a screaming admission that I was throwing my life away.)
My earlier viewings of curling made me relatively clear on the basics. I understand how you scored points. It’s like marbles or shuffleboard. A player on one team delivers their rock, hoping to get it closer to the center of the concentric circles than the other team’s rocks. To protect their scoring rocks, they position “guard rocks” out in front, so the other team can’t knock them away.
I know about the “in-turn draw” and the “out-turn draw.” That has to do with the direction you twist the handle attached to the top of the rock before letting it go. The way you twist the handle reflects your desire for the rock to “curl” in or “curl” out.
I understand the “sweeping.” The sweeping brushes away the debris in front of the rock, allowing it to slide faster. If that’s what you want, you sweep. If your rock is sliding at the appropriate speed, or too quickly, you don’t sweep. Also, if one team’s rock looks like it’s going to slide through the circles and therefore score zero, the other team sweeps, to insure that that happens.
I know there are ten “ends”, which are like innings, during which the teams take turns delivering their rocks, and that if there’s a tie after ten, you go into extra “ends” until there’s a winner.
Through the entire two weeks of watching on television, I learned virtually nothing more about curling than I already knew. I learned that, if a team has the last shot in an “end,” you say that that team has the “hammer.” And that was it.
Being observant, I noticed a couple of things on my own. I noticed, to my amazement that, though the “sweepers” went hurtling down to lane, seemingly not looking where they were going, never once did they trip over a rock that was already in place. I would have fallen over everything.
Another thing I noticed: “Those Swedish women are big!”
Other Olympic sports were easy to understand, even for the novice. In the speed events, you watched the times. The athlete with the fastest time, won. With figure skating, it was the judges’ scores. You could disagree with those scores, but you knew they were the deciding factor.
I never saw the Biathlon before, but I got it right away. It’s skiing and it’s shooting. (It’s like they were short one event, and it edged out skating and yodeling.)
Not that there aren’t subtleties in every event that experts would be aware of but would pass me right by. There were tons of those. But for the most part, what you knew was enough to allow you to appreciate what was going on.
An essential element in curling is the player’s “touch” when releasing the rock. The “touch” determines the success of the shot. It’s a delicate maneuver. The right “touch” and the rock does exactly what you intend it to do. You’re a little “off” with your shot, and your teammates – though they pretend not to be – are really mad at you.
But as important as “touch” is, even more important is strategy. The plan behind the shot. That’s where the bulk of the time is taken. The shots themselves take twenty-five seconds. The rest of the time, the players are huddling, to decide which type of shot to try. Sometimes, a team calls a “time out” for a more extended discussion. That’s how vital strategy is to curling.
The announcers covering the curling competition – I believe there were three of them – would debate strategy along with the players. They would all articulate their positions, usually differing ones. But here’s the big problem.
The announcers discussed their various strategies in the language of connoisseurs of the game, believing it appeared, that the viewing audience was as knowledgeable as they were.
Why would they think that? It’s curling!
I recognized a few words here and there. They were speaking English, but in a different and, to me, undecipherable dialect. It was like eavesdropping in a bar where they only speak Gaelic. It sounded familiar, but the gist was frustratingly out of reach.
They were arguing strategy, the most important element in curling. And I had no idea what they were talking about!
This is what it sounded like to me:
ANNOUNCER NUMBER ONE: “What I think they should do here is to…(articulating 'Strategy A', which they don’t explain)…so they can…(articulating the hoped-for outcome, which they don’t explain)…without…(verbal static, featuring incomprehensible – unless you’re an expert in curling – groupings of words.)”
ANNOUNCER NUMBER TWO: “I get what you’re drivin’ at there, but, to me, that’s extremely risky. The best plan here is to…(articulating an equally incomprehensible 'Strategy B'.) That way they can…(total gibberish)… while at same time…(more verbal static, but with an upbeat tone, indicating a desirable effect.)"
ANNOUNCER NUMBER THREE: “You guys both have a point. But if I were them, I would…bibbity bobbity boo…making certain to…wee-oo, wee-oo, wee-oo…while keeping my opponent from…abba dabba dabba, said the monkey to the chimp.”
I spent hours and hours watching a game, whose strategy the announcers made an inadequate effort to explain.
I want my hours and hours back.
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